


Misunderstanding

by narsus



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Crossdressing, Genderplay, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they have is an arrangement, at least that's what Martin thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure belongs to John Finnemore and BBC Radio 4.

Martin wakes in a distinctly unfamiliar bed, at first, entirely unsure as to why he’s even woken up. Lifting the covers cautiously proves that he is indeed naked. There’s a digital alarm clock on the bedside table that tells him that he’s slept till mid morning. A quick glance around the room reveals a captain’s hat, not his, hanging off a chair, along with a jacket, also not his, sporting four telltale stripes. Sitting up gingerly, proves that he’s quite sore in one place in particular, and readjusting his weight, which involves splaying his hands out flat against the covers, reveals a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. It’s too much to take in and he lets himself fall back down against the mattress, which nets him a closer look at the bedside table. There’s an empty champagne bottle and two glasses sitting there incriminatingly.

He forces himself upright again, then swings his legs off the bed and promptly steps on a discarded pair of high heels. Then it all comes flooding back. Martin sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes, before he tugs the ring off and drops it into one of the empty champagne flutes. He carefully picks up the shoes and inspects them for scuffing. Normally, they don’t sustain much damage, even underneath, because he rarely has to do much walking in them. He can walk in them of course but there’s never really much occasion for it. Last night, having run much the same as every other occasion, there isn’t any further wear to them so he carefully places them back on the shoe rack in the wardrobe. The rest of his clothing, on the other hand, is probably going to need to at least be laundered. The skirt, he finds in a crumpled heap under the bed, though the jacket is in a less rumpled state on the floor. The stockings are surprisingly undamaged but the lace of the garter belt that goes with them is torn. Likewise, the matching lace panties are so mangled that he’ll just have to buy a new pair. The silk blouse, _not_ standard issue, is both stained and torn, and Martin grumbles under his breath about non-adherence to uniform specifications. There’s a silk scarf that goes with it, again not standard issue, that’s reusable at least, and the little Air England pin that goes with the jacket has at least been placed safely on the dressing table. Picking up the silk chemise that’s ended up on top of a pair of socks, standard issue, it’s at least in a serviceable condition, unlike the shirt, captain’s epaulettes still attached, that’s going to need a decent beaching, just to get the lipstick stains out. A brief hunt uncovers a vest, just in need of a wash, trousers, also just in need of washing and a tie that’s so crumpled that Martin’s certain it’s going to need ironing. At least, he supposes, after a quick inspection, neither captain’s nor chief air stewardess’ hats have been damaged.

Bundling everything together, Martin is about to head downstairs, when it occurs to him that he’s still naked. He leaves the clothing in a heap on the bed and decides that a shower is probably in order before he presents himself to the world, or at least, something along those lines.

 

A little while later, hair still damp and wearing a dressing-gown that’s really too large, he makes his way downstairs, arms full of laundry.

“Eventually, you’ll get over the shock of waking up in-“  
“I know.”

Douglas smiles, surprisingly gently, and manages to lean over and give Martin a quick kiss without dislodging any laundry.

“You know...” A familiar drawl.  
“You’re insatiable, Captain Richardson.”

Martin steps around Douglas and heads over to the washing machine.

“That would be why you married me, Mrs Richardson.”

Laundry dealt with, Martin helps himself to a glass of orange juice and an apple, and then clears out of the way so that Douglas can finish whatever it is that he’s cooking. Sitting on the couch, Martin watches Douglas putter about in the kitchen and ponders his current situation. If somebody had told him, only a year ago, that he’d be dressing up as an Air England air stewardess on a fairly regular basis, and reenacting said stewardess’ wedding night, he would like to think that he would have laughed at them. In all actuality, he probably would have turned bright red and spluttered, but the sentiment would have been along the same lines. Of course it was Douglas’ idea in the first place, but what had surprised Martin the most, and still continues to confuse him, is that Douglas’ fantasy isn’t just about having sex with an attractive woman. The pre-consummation declarations of love and devotion seem to be just as important to Douglas as the rest of it, and Martin’s never known a man who could be just as enthusiastic about tearing off lace panties with his teeth, as he could be about swearing that he wants to commit himself entirely to the woman whose panties he’s just about to tear off. Of course Douglas tells Martin he’s beautiful on nights like that, but he also talks about how he wants them to end up crotchety, old, retired, pilots together, who point out that everything was different in their day.

When Martin thinks about it, most of what Douglas says doesn’t really make that much sense in the contact of the fantasy. He uses female pronouns, in keeping with the costume, to address Martin, certainly, but the rest of it is either too specific or so general that Martin wonders what’s really going through Douglas’ head. Come to think of it, Martin recalls that it was Douglas on his knees with Martin’s cock in his mouth and not the other way round last night. Of course, Martin likes giving blowjobs anyway, and he really enjoys having Douglas penetrate him with tongue, fingers or cock most of the time, but last night Douglas had mentioned changing things up a bit. That had been just before he’d gone down on his knees, so that conversation hadn’t gone any further, but it’s just another thing that’s really making Martin start to wonder. Like the fact that Douglas makes breakfast the next morning or takes Martin out for dinner quite frequently. They’ve even been to the theatre now. In fact, there are plenty of things that they’ve done together, socially, that would, through any other lens, closely resemble dates. Except they’re not dating. From the start, they’d agreed that it wouldn’t be much more than sex. At least that’s what Martin thinks they agreed. He’s not entirely sure if he remembers. He’d been hesitant after all, and woefully inexperienced, but willing to try anyway, so formal negotiations beforehand had reduced him to a somewhat incoherent, spluttering, mess.

“Douglas? You know how this is just... you know...”

Martin watches as Douglas sets down the tray of evidently freshly baked brioche and various condiments to go with it on the coffee table.

“Douglas?”  
“And there I was thinking that my culinary skills had finally won you over.”

Douglas doesn’t look at Martin and heads back to the kitchen, to fetch various other bits and pieces.

“What do you mean ‘won me over’?”

The clank of plates being set down is the only answer that Martin gets for a time.

“I was rather hoping- Well, that doesn’t matter much now, does it?”

Douglas sits down next to Martin on the couch and looks down at his hands.

“Douglas? Did you- I mean- with us...?”  
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

The smile he turns in Martin’s direction is rueful.

“You mean you- but you said you only wanted sex!”  
“ _I_ said- Martin, are you seriously telling me that-“  
“You said- wait- oh. _Oh_.”

 

When Martin wakes for the second time that day, the first thing in his line of vision is a loaf of cold brioche and some congealing poached eggs. Not that those things matter any, because they’re only incidental, in comparison to the soft tickle of warm breath against his neck and the solid arm wrapped around him.


End file.
